A week later, James Bond was sitting up in a chair, a towel round his waist, reading Allen Dulles on The Craft of Intelligence and cursing his fate. The hospital had worked miracles on him, the nurses were sweet, particularly the one he called ‘The Mermaid,’ but he wanted to be off and away. He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Visiting time. Mary Goodnight would soon be there and he would be able to let off his pent-up steam on her. Unjust perhaps, but he had already tongue-lashed everyone in range in the hospital and, if she got into the field of fire, that was just too bad!
The Craft of IntelligenceMary Goodnight came through the door. Despite the Jamaican heat, she was looking fresh as a rose. Damn her! She was carrying what looked like a typewriter. Bond recognized it as the Triple
